Kumatsu-san
by AngelDormais
Summary: Nine was just as unlucky a number as four, which was hilariously fitting for trash like him. What was he supposed to do with nine of them? He didn't even want the one. (Or: Ichimatsu's affinity for cats comes with a benefit he never asked for.)
1. 1play

_a/n:_ you know it took me months to even figure out osomatsu-san had a section on ffnet lol

hello everyone! this fic has already been completed and is being cross-posted here from over on ao3. updates will come weekly! or you can just go to ao3 and read the whole thing now, found under the same penname.

content warnings for this fic include: various deaths, implied/referenced self-harm, implied suicide attempts, swearing, and violence. this fic does not contain nor is intended to be interpreted as BLmatsu.

please enjoy!

\- angel

* * *

 **i. 1play**

* * *

You've always talked a big game, but the first time is a complete fucking accident.

Seriously. So embarrassing.

You can't even die properly.

In fairness, as often as you enjoyed entertaining scenarios of your demise in the past, you hadn't actually been trying to this particular evening. It was cold enough to want to die, but you didn't. Not until the dry-monster youngest had practically kneecapped you under the kotatsu with his heel, causing you to jolt backwards into the wall, and the shitty eldest had immediately proceeded to stretch out like a fucking hippo to swallow up your spot.

Those shit-eating grins barely had time to turn your way before you'd snatched up the empty kerosene container and were storming out the door. To hell with them. You needed to feed the cats anyway.

It wasn't a long walk. And you'd ignored Choromatsu's absent reminder to pull on one of the snow coats near the front door on your way out; mostly out of spite, because the bastard hadn't even glanced at you over the pages of whatever fappy magazine he had crammed between the job pages. To hell with him, too, and his faux concern.

Halfway down the street, as you took a mindful step around the rut of black ice that always accumulates over a gash in the road, you began to regret it. Because shit. You were freezing.

Oh well. Garbage like you deserved to suffer on a night like that.

You had a chance to warm up a bit while waiting for the kerosene to refill, but you didn't take it. The gas station was jam packed for some damn reason, people buying coffee and donuts and whatever, and all their eyes were on you. You could feel it. So you'd shoved the container at the clerk, demanded for him to fill it quick or you'd kill him, and shuffled outside to suffer in the biting cold.

When a different clerk called you back - probably the attendant who'd actually filled it - you'd roughly tossed a wad of bills at him, snatched a pack of dried sardines to feed the cats on the way, hefted the kerosene, and headed straight back.

Maybe it had been because the literal icicles forming up your nose were reaching your brain, but you weren't half as mindful of the black ice on the way back. And like an idiot, you'd stepped right on it with your stupid open-toed sandals.

On the plus side, your feet were so numb by then that you didn't even feel your ankle roll like a limp ball of yarn.

On the minus, you have no idea how much time has actually passed between the crack of pain in your skull, and waking up to the horrible stench of kerosene and metal.

You don't come even close to compiling your senses before you roll over onto your stomach and heave your guts into the icy street. It doesn't help the fucking smell, but it does something about the noxious fog in your head; that is, the jolt of following pain is so encompassing that you curse aloud, teeth chattering through the taste of bile. Holy shit you're cold and you _hurt_.

As you scramble to track the situation, drawing numbly to your knees, you automatically reach for the tipped container of kerosene. It's already half-emptied into the street, making up part of the unholy sludge splattered across asphalt; snow slush, kerosene, puke and…

Ah. Blood.

In what feels like slow motion, you tousle a hand through your bangs. Though your hair has the tendency to get greasy due to lack of proper care, the thick, frosty texture just isn't right. You tug experimentally at a bit of the ice, wincing at the pain in your scalp, and hold it close to your face in the flickering light provided by the half-frozen street lamp overhead.

Yeah. That's your blood, all right.

Shit. Maybe it's because you're so cold, but you don't even care. You just want to go home and warm up already. You climb unsteadily to your feet, your knees wobbling and half of your limbs numb, and the fact that your weak-ass body can lift the container so easily makes you realize a couple things.

One, your brothers are going to be pissed about you bringing back only half a container of kerosene. As far as that goes, they can eat crap.

Two, your hoodie is completely drenched in blood. And you stink.

To be honest, you're pretty sure your brothers will care more about the missing portion of their sweet, heated nectar than the fact that you almost died or whatever. But that doesn't mean you want to go back like this. With a growl that hurts your ribcage, you turn right back around, meticulously sidestepping the embarrassing brew (and the fucking ice), and make your way towards the bathhouse.

* * *

Thankfully, for some inexplicable reason the bathhouse is empty on a freezing night when a gas station isn't. There's no one that you, the gas-and-blood-and-vomit-covered weirdo wandering around at half past whenever the fuck, can't intimidate into leaving you alone.

You have to ditch the hoodie in the dumpster. There's no saving it.

(There's a few moments where you'd consider saving yourself the trouble of taking it off and just climbing in the dumpster yourself, because wouldn't that be two birds with one stone anyway, but you'd figured you were already committed to this cleaning up thing so you may as well follow through.)

You scrub down the kerosene container first and set it far to the side before focusing on yourself. The bath is scathing hot, and it frankly hurts more than it soothes, but you're not here for a nice soak to chase away the cold. You're here to make sure you're less of a disaster than usual when you walk through the front door.

Of course, you're barely lowered into the tub when rings of red bloom in the bathwater around you like puffs of underwater smoke. You bite out a distasteful scoff and start scrubbing yourself down with the soap you'd had to buy at the vending machine.

It doesn't take long to get your body clean. It's your head that you're worried about. Amazingly, the pain has dulled in the fifteen or so minutes it's been since you've woken up - but as you suck in a breath and duck underwater, furiously scrubbing at your scalp to loosen the congealed blood, you're anticipating the pain that will come with tearing off what is probably a huge, icy scab.

Actually, this is probably a terrible idea. You might bleed to death right here in the bathhouse. Embarrassing, but whatever.

Except the pain never comes.

You run out of breath long before you finish scrubbing. By the time you rise with a gasp, you look like you're sitting in an actual tub of cranberry juice. Your brows stay knitted in confusion as you massage your scalp again, this time intentionally probing for your head wound.

What the fuck.

You don't have one.

You look like some kind of virgin NEET sacrifice in a tub of your own blood and you don't even know where you bled from.

But it has to be your head, right? Your hair was matted with the stuff. Something close to the realm of anxiety seizes in your gut as your slop some cheap shampoo onto your hands and lather up your hair. You're not squeamish about your blood or anything, but what the hell is with this? Why aren't you bleeding?

Come to think of it, why isn't any of you hurting anymore?

It's too fucking weird. You don't like it.

After at least three more unsuccessful attempts to locate any sort of injury on yourself, you finally finish up and climb out of the bath. Holy crap, whoever walks in here next is gonna freak out. Oh well. You don't have the luxury of screwing around much longer before one of your brothers - probably Osomatsu - gets sent out after you.

And while imagining the inattentive Osomatsu eating shit in that smoothie of puke, kerosene, and blood is _kind_ of funny, it's probably more trouble than it's worth.

The hoodie is gone, but your sweatpants are salvageable. You pat yourself dry and decide screw it; you'll go home like this. It'll be cold as hell but the walk is short. And maybe it'll help wake you up. You're not in pain anymore, but for some reason - maybe the bath - you're utterly exhausted.

You pick up the kerosene and head home.

* * *

You were right, it's still freezing, and even the extremely short walk from the bathouse to home almost made you keel over.

It's not even worth announcing you're home. You climb up the stairs, teeth chattering again, and slam the sliding door open, chucking the container at whichever brother first catches your eye. Luckily, it's Jyushimatsu, so he catches it with ease and whoops loudly.

"Kerosene from Ichimatsu-niisan! Muscle, muscle! No hustle, hustle!"

"Seriously!" cries Osomatsu the fucking hippo, dramatically rising from _your_ spot. "What the hell took so long, Ichi..." he stops. And stares.

Try me, you telepathically drill into his brain with the subtlety of a lawnmower.

Surprisingly, he doesn't. But probably only because Choromatsu beats him to it.

"Ichimatsu!" Choromatsu gasps, flinging his magazine onto the table. "Where's your sweater?!"

You send him a withering glare and hug the edge of the room on your way back to the corner. It's easier to focus on Jyushimatsu happily refill the heater than look at your immediate older sibling.

"Dunno."

"Are you kidding? Don't _'D_ _unno…'_ me! I told you to put on extra clothing, not take something off. You're as white as a sheet!"

The hell? You can't tell if he's actually concerned or if he's just marveling at your stupidity. Probably the latter.

Todomatsu looks up from his phone, frowning.

"Yeah, this is kinda weird, even for you, Ichimatsu-niisan. I mean… I guess your hoodie is better than your pants again, but still."

"Uh, actually, I think keeping the hoodie would have been more helpful," Choromatsu objects.

"Whatever." You don't even care about the heater or the kotatsu anymore. You just want to go to bed. Hunkering down into your corner, you wrap your arms around your legs and try to block them out before they realize how much kerosene is missing.

"Seriously? Is he okay?"

"Ahh, it's fine," assures a voice thick with carefree dismissiveness. Ah, to truly not give a shit like Osomatsu-niisan. "Even without a shirt, it'll warm up in here soon."

"No, that's not exactly what I meant…"

Todomatsu suddenly coughs, and you try not to tense.

"W-what the… that smell… is that Niisan? I don't even know what to call that…"

"Soap! Puke! Gasoline!" Jyushimatsu yells from his corner.

"Maybe it's… his _passion._ "

"... anyway, he must have just spilled some on himself and got sick from the stench," Todomatsu surmises with a chuckle. You peek over your kneecap as his face twists into a soft grimace. "But… isn't there another smell, too…?"

"No," you snap, and they all bristle as if they had no clue you could hear them from three feet away. What fakers. Roughly, you slump over and make an aborted attempt to pull your hood over your head before remembering that you can't. "I'm going to sleep. Do me a favor and shut up."

Because shit. You're exhausted.

You're fucking exhausted.

You just want to sleep like you're dead.

It turns out, you do fall asleep before they realize how little kerosene you brought back. Or maybe because it was Jyushimatsu who refilled it, he didn't notice.

Or if you're being generous - and you always are, when it's Jyushimatsu - he just didn't rat you out.

It's dark, and if your head didn't hurt earlier it sure does now. You groan and curl into yourself. It's closer to a splitting headache deep behind your eyes than a surface pain, though, not that you're sure if you'd be able to tell the difference - you just hurt.

Somewhere above the ache, you register that you're still shirtless, but the familiar softness of the futon and comforter are packed tight against your sore body. What the hell? They moved you to bed in your sleep. That's kinder than you expected from those monsters.

Kindness...

Shit.

Shit, your hoodie. The sardines.

Shit.

"I gotta feed the cats," you mutter in horror. You start to shuffle, even though you feel like lead garbage, but a hand on your shoulder - Shittymatsu, of course - gently pushes you down.

"Sleep, _brother_ ," he says way too gently, and seriously, what's with this. You must look like even paler shit than you feel if they're all being this nice. "They'll be there in the morning."

He's right. They always have been before, no matter the weather. Your instinct to tell him to shut his painful mouth is swallowed by something else that curls in your stomach.

Your head hurts. Something's not-

Something's…

 _Didn't - tonight, didn't -?_

You're asleep before the offer of a lullaby hits your ears.


	2. 2play

**ii. 2play**

* * *

The second time isn't so much of an accident. But then, it's not really on purpose, either.

It's so simple it's stupid, honestly. It's all just because you're a stubborn, loser piece of shit who would rather die than function like a human being.

It's no secret to anyone you know, least of all your brothers, that you aren't the fondest of dogs. It's not like you hate them or anything, but they sort of freak you out. Fitting for a Kittymatsu like you, they tease whenever the subject comes up, like when you stiffen while passing any dog taller than your knees on the street. Easy for fucking them to say. They haven't been chased by a crazy mutt snapping at their tail before.

Though… most people probably haven't. Still. Assholes.

Part of you thinks that the reason Jyushimatsu likes to dress up like a dog in the first place is to give you an excuse to get over your anxiety, which is definitely _not_ a phobia, but you don't deny that dogs in general make you uncomfortable. It's a nice thought, but walking your own brother down the street while he's wearing a dog suit is pretty much the definition of ' _uncomfortable_ '. He seems to like it, though. So you put up with it.

Jyushimatsu in a dog suit, you can put up with.

Actual dogs are different.

You're seriously minding your own business in your favorite alley, coaxing a new face from behind a pallet with a spoonful of tuna, when you're reminded exactly why you can't handle them.

There's a yowl and a hiss behind you that you instantly recognize as coming from Pachinko, the rowdy tomcat you'd named because of how much he reminded you of Osomatsu. By definition, always picking fights with things that can probably kick his ass.

Fuck.

You abandon the tuna and leap to your feet, whirling around and speeding towards the alley's second bend. Right on cue, there's stupid little Pachinko. He's got an entire ear missing and bald patches on his tail that refuse to grow back, and there's honestly not much of him left to tear apart, but his knobby spine is arched in a violent angle, and he spits angrily at the massive dog he's cornered two feet away that could gobble him down in two bites.

Worse, the dog doesn't even look pissed. It looks freaking scared of this tiny, insane furball. You might not be fond of dogs, but you can read them, and this dog feels trapped. You can see the fear building like a pressurized bottle behind its swirling eyes.

Crap.

Stupid Pachinko.

You've usually got a pretty gentle hand at defusing animal aggression, mastering tactics you've even used on Jyushimatsu. Except it's clear that you've stumbled in on a confrontation way past its saving point. All you really have time to do is lunge forward at the same time the dog does, swatting Pachinko to the side - shit, sorry, you dumb cat -

Ah, and fuck.

 _Agh,_ your arm -

 _Fuck!_

You're not sure you even cry out in pain. Everything is just white, just fucking agony, like electric wire being shoved through your forearm and sawed through your skin in and out. Shit, shit, what are you even supposed to do right now? Fight the dog off? You don't even want to hurt it, it's just scared, and god it _hurts_ but you can't even bring yourself to twist around on the ground and punch it in the nose or something. You can't.

Pachinko keeps yowling and hissing somewhere to your side. Stupid ungrateful cat. He's getting dry food for the rest of his life.

If _you_ get out of this alive. Seriously. Who else but you would die from a shitty goddamn _dog mauling_. Screw dying alone on some freezing street somewhere. _This_ is what you deserve.

The pain is all-enveloping, sucking the entire world into a pinpoint like a straw, and it takes you… too long to realize that you're not even under attack anymore. The dog is freaking gone. It ran away with a mouthful of you because it was so freaked out by this old-ass cat, and you've just been lying here for god knows how long. You must have just blacked out at the start and let things happen the way they were gonna happen. Even while you're being mauled. Yeah, that sounds like you.

A low, pained sound wheezes in your throat before you can stop it. A rough tongue like sandpaper rasps over your arm, and it's Pachinko, probably, but shit. You don't wanna look. You don't want to see how bad that dog screwed you up.

That's another hoodie you've got to throw out.

You just lie there like painful trash for way too long before you finally roll into a sitting position and hike your sleeve up.

You look at the damage. Honestly, you thought the wound would be dramatic, with a huge chunk of skin gone and whiteness of bone peeking out from a valley of pulverized flesh. It's not even that. The dog must not have bitten that hard, or didn't shake you or whatever, because while the bite is definitely ugly, it looks more like a series of puncture marks and bruises slicked with drool than anything else.

It's not even bleeding that badly anymore.

You mutter a string of unintelligible sounds under your breath. You want to curse the dog, or Pachinko, or just the gods in general, but you can't even summon the will to do any of that. You just want to put this embarrassing incident behind you.

Crap. Your brothers are going to be a pain in the ass about this.

There's soft pressure against your lower back, brushing against your thighs, and you twist around to see that most of your feline companions have joined you. Some are sniffing in concern at your arm, others kneading your legs gently, and despite yourself, you find an uneven smile crawling across your face. You roll your slobber-covered sleeve down and reach out for Pachinko's good ear with your good hand.

You should probably go home and take care of the bite, but…

You'd rather put up with these guys than the monsters that live there.

* * *

It's late at night by the time you finally make it home.

No big deal. Out of all your brothers, save maybe Shittymatsu, you're the one no one really worries about if you don't come home at a decent hour. They know you vastly prefer the company of your cats to them, after all. Also, they most likely just don't care. No need to sugarcoat it.

You wonder if they'd care about the fact you were mauled by a freaking dog today. You doubt it. They'd just laugh at you.

The second story windows are dark when you get to the house, which means your brothers have already gone to sleep. You're fine with that. You think you might have stayed out a little _too_ long - your bite is really stinging, even though it stopped bleeding hours ago. You should probably take care of that.

But you really just want to go to bed.

No, stupid. You've applied enough first aid to Jyushimatsu to know that you at least have to clean it out. Wrap it in clean bandages or something, if there are even any in the house.

But you don't feel like doing all that. Especially if you end up making a bunch of noise and waking someone up. Specifically, Choromatsu, that light-sleeping, high-strung, fappy bastard.

You at least manage to scold yourself into the bathroom. Peel your hoodie off - and, _ugh_ , it actually does become a matter of peeling around the bite wound. That freaking hurt more than you expected it to. Squinting at the wound, you try to make out what you can from the glimmer of light filtering through the window from the next-door porch light.

You can't really make out the details, but it still doesn't look that bad. And of course it hurts. It's a god damn dog bite. Just stop being a wuss about it.

You run the warm sink water, wad up some toilet paper, pump a glob of soap onto it, and dab the wound as clean as you can bear. Crap, it hurts. Just the thought of scrubbing it out with rubbing alcohol makes you want to die on the spot. This is good enough, right? It's just a few small punctures.

Satisfied, you lob the toilet paper into the trash bin and shut off the water. When you trail into the room, it actually surprises you to see your brothers all stretched out on the futon completely awake, watching a movie.

"Oh," Choromatsu says, "welcome back."

You grunt your usual reply out of reflex more than anything else. You're suddenly glad that your undershirt escaped damage this time, or coming home shirtless might become your _thing_ among your brothers.

You're also kind of annoyed. All that trouble you went through to be quiet, and they're all awake anyway.

"Okay, Kittymatsu is back," Osomatsu announces. He sits up straight and flicks the movie off. "Bedtime."

What the heck? They were actually waiting up. Sometimes these guys really do surprise you. Well, Mom probably asked them to before going on her trip thing tonight, so it's not that weird. Wordlessly, you pick your way across the dark to the closet, dump your hoodie into the corner of banished clothing that no one ever looks at, and exchange your short-sleeved undershirt for your usual pajamas. By the time you slink into your usual spot, everyone else is practically snoring already.

You roll onto your right side, ignoring the barb of pain that shoots through your arm. Ugh. Sleeping is going to suck.

At least you'll feel better in the morning.

* * *

You feel awful in the morning.

Actually, you don't think it's even morning by the time you drag yourself into consciousness. The futon is rolled up all the way to your back, which is your brothers' favorite passive-aggressive way of telling you to put it away when you finally get your ass out of bed, but.

Shit.

You don't think you're going to.

Your bad arm is sticking out from the comforter, and it feels hot and swollen. _You_ feel hot and swollen, all of you, from your fingertips to your toes to the fucking cowlicks sticking out of your hair. You pull your arm back under the covers and cradle it close, sucking in a breath against the pain.

Crap. You might have messed this one up.

The rolled-up portion of the futon is making you feel trapped, trapped like a freaking dog, so you shove it back with your good elbow. It probably unrolls, there's a flutter of noise somewhere beyond your reach; it takes you a few moments more to realize that the steady blur of sound has been there since you woke up, you just weren't registering any of it.

"Ichimatsu-niisan?"

Well, that one's close enough for you to hear. You crack open one eye and level it at Todomatsu, who's leaning over you with something that actually looks like concern.

You don't answer, because you never answer, but Todomatsu seems to think it's exceptionally odd. With a hum, he daintily presses the back of two fingers against your forehead. Then he gives a quiet _shriek_ and snatches his hand back.

"You're sick! Ugh! I'm out of here!"

Oh, there's the dry monster you know. Good old Totty. You hear him beat feet across the room and start calling for someone better equipped to handle someone unforgivably germ-ridden as you. Mom or Choromatsu or something. Right, no, it has to be Choromatsu; Your parents are out for a week at some business thing of Dad's.

Ugh. You don't care.

Your arm hurts like hell.

You're going back to sleep.

* * *

You wake up again, and you're still in pain. The room is dark and vacant - which means your brothers must have found you so disgusting that you've basically been quarantined in here by yourself. Assholes. You have an infection, not a virus. Though you don't blame them for thinking you're vile.

You blink through a haze of pain and heat at a dark outline in front of your face; something that shouldn't be there. A glass of water and a few fever pills.

You should take them. Even you're aware enough of your situation to know that. You really, seriously should take them.

Your brothers left them for you. Todomatsu must have told the whole damn house. They probably figured out what really happened, though. You wouldn't be surprised if one of them saw the bite marks while you were getting changed last night. They must know that stupid Kittymatsu got torn up by a big bad -

 _Kittymatsu_. So it was the eldest; it must have been.

Bastards. They're pitying you, aren't they?

You don't want their pity.

You snarl softly, feeling grit in your throat. Then you roll onto your other side, your injured arm crumpling limply over your stomach, and try to go back to sleep.

* * *

You wake up again. You really hurt, and it's dark outside but bright in here.

One of your brothers is leaning over you. You want to call him a bastard, but you don't exactly remember why right now. He says something to you and tries to force a bowl under your nose. You're not stupid, you can see the pills sitting in the bed of rice like seaweed flakes, and it pisses you off.

You don't know why it does but

It does.

"Go to hell," you mutter, trying to prop yourself on your good arm and failing. What you try to say doesn't match up at all to the sludgy mess of words you hear from yourself, but you're pretty sure the message gets through. Your brother's expression falls, and he sets the bowl down compliantly, bits of rice sticking to his overstretched sleeves - it's Jyushimatsu, _shit._ He's the one brother who isn't a bastard. You've half a mind to scarf down all the rice right this moment to make up for your mistake, but your stomach is swirling with nausea and pain and you just... you can't.

It's too late to apologize; Jyushimatsu's moved beyond your line of sight and you're too dizzy to search for him. You curl tighter and escape into unconsciousness.

* * *

You wake up.

You hurt.

What time is it? What day is it? You have to feed the cats.

Even Pachinko, that trash cat.

Maybe the dog, if it's still-

* * *

You wake up.

Fuck, it's hot.

* * *

Someone actually _shakes_ you awake.

"Ichimatsu!" he says, and wow he sounds angry, which isn't the best note to wake you up on because now _you're_ angry. You lift your hand to swat at the offending brother, but a cataclysmic fusion of agony and nausea makes you realize that the hand isn't responding. The hell. "Will you just _take_ the pills already?"

"Stop messing around," comes another voice, curt and… maybe even more ticked off than the first one. It takes you a second to even recognize it. Holy crap, that's Shittymatsu. "Just shove them down his throat."

"I'm not sure about this..." Choromatsu. The three oldest; of course it's them. No one else can make you feel this pissy before you've even identified them, it's as though it's in their very auras. "He's not getting any better. Shouldn't we start thinking about a hospital by now?"

What.

No fucking way.

You lurch upward, managing a good growl of defiance before wilting back into the futon. In retrospect, that display probably doesn't help your case, but you're seriously _not_ going to a hospital. You don't need it, you're not sure your family can afford it - not that you're worried about that kind of thing - and you're not about to let yourself be _humiliated_ like that.

"No," you grit out, mothballs in your tongue.

Apparently your opinion isn't in the running. There's some brisk arguing over your head, and you hurt, and your arm fucking _hurts_. The stress builds into a pressure in your face and if you didn't know better you're pretty sure you're close to crying.

But, hell no.

You go back to sleep -

Except you don't.

The same rough hands haul you up, and there's another set of fingers that practically force you to deepthroat them up to the knuckles - taste like metal from those stupid fucking guitar strings - and then there's a glass of water dribbling at your lips, and you have no choice but to drink or drown. Though maybe you should just drown at this point. Or at least spit it all back in Fappyfuck's face.

It's over in seconds. Literal seconds. Choromatsu releases you, and Osomatsu eases you back down like you're breakable, and Karamatsu replaces the cold towel that had tumbled off your forehead in the brief violence. Then the three shitbags sit back with a sigh of relief, like a few Tylenol are going to quell the raging fever eating you from the inside out. You need antibiotics or something, not fever pills. The stupid assholes don't even know it's infection.

Because you didn't tell them.

Shouldn't you make up your mind already? Do they know about the bite or not?

You don't know anymore.

You don't care anymore.

 _He just keeps getting worse -_

 _Won't eat, can't even stay awake -_

 _I'm worried -_

You shove your consciousness deep under before you can make out their low, anxious chatter.

* * *

You wake up. Your arm is in agony, and you try to pull it in again, but something stops it. Peeling an eye open with monumental effort, you make out the figure of one of your brothers crouched next to you, his silhouette dark against the window.

The hell… he's holding your hand.

"What're you doin," you slur out, because Totty is allergic to being within five miles of germs, let alone holding the hand of a disgusting, festering trash heap like you. You tug weakly with your whole arm and suppress the groan of agony, a mild flicker of wonder that the entire thing didn't just slough off from its socket like the necrotic lump of flesh it must be by now. "Le'ggo."

Todomatsu's mouth is set into an unusually straight line. He squeezes your hand softly, and you… must have some kind of withered big brotherly instinct left, because you don't let it show how much that hurts.

"Niisan, I called Mom. She's coming home tomorrow night. She'll know if we have to take you to the hospital or not, okay?" Todomatsu strokes your hand soothingly, completely fucking unaware of the roiling bacteria pit a foot away from him. Fuck. He doesn't know at all, does he?

You should tell him. You should tell all of them.

"... 'kay," you murmur.

That you actually responded seems to brighten him a little. All of you hurts, but your chest suddenly has the worst of it. It was just a bite. It wasn't a big deal. How did you fuck up this bad? You're actually starting to think that they seriously will take you to the hospital whether they can afford to or not, and that they haven't already might be because it falls into the _or not_ category. There's no way they care that much. That's too terrifying.

It's not too late to tell them that this is more serious than they think, but.

Well, frankly...

You deserve this.

Fuck you.

"You'll feel better soon, Niisan," Todomatsu says with confidence. He lets your hand go, and then he's gone.

You don't go back to sleep.

* * *

You don't exactly wake up from sleep, either.

* * *

And then Choromatsu's bellowing in your ear.

"All right, you shitty Suicidalmatsu... Mom's gonna be home in a few hours -"

He chokes off with a sound of surprise so genuine that you're amazed it doesn't tansform into a _Sheeh_ right then and there. Glancing over your shoulder, you send him a lazy, lopsided wave before returning to your task of rolling up the futon.

"'Kay," you say in a drawn-out drawl, just to fill in the silence.

"W-what…" Rapid pounding of feet. Choromatsu drops at your side and palms your forehead so quickly it's practically a slap, which you let slide. "Your fever is gone! It's totally gone! What the hell, Ichimatsu?"

You shrug. "Not a big deal," you say.

"Not a big deal? Ichimatsu, you…"

"Forget it." You stand, hefting the futon as best you're able with your right arm. "I'm gonna wash this thing. It smells like shit."

Probably because he's so flabbergasted, Choromatsu doesn't seem to notice that you've already had a bath yourself this morning; you've had plenty of time to figure out and process the results of your rapid recovery. Plenty. It's seriously not a big deal.

It's not.

You roll the futon down the stairs, kicking it towards the laundry room like a soccer ball. You probably should have said something like 'thanks for taking care of me', but honestly, you're not that kind of guy. The fact that you're doing something like laundry at all should show how grateful you are to them, besides.

Even if they pity you. Screw them, and screw you.

As you unroll the futon on the laundry room floor, you scratch at the scar under your sleeve; perfectly healed, preserved only in faded patches of off-color skin. You still haven't found the length of scarring hidden somewhere beneath your scruffy mop of hair, but that doesn't bother you much, honestly.

What's there left to bother you? You're still alive.

You're still fucking alive.


	3. 3play

**iii. 3play**

* * *

Not only is the third time on purpose; it's a test.

That's why it's not worth talking about.

You allow time to roll between incidents like a vast cavern, leaving far behind the day you let yourself die from fucking sepsis. A span of a couple months; longer than the mere weeks between the first two times. To this minute, you aren't sure which was more humiliating, more pathetic - dying alone on the street from pure stupidity on your part, as you deserved, or willingly expiring while surrounded by your brothers, as you most certainly _didn't_ deserve.

In the end, it doesn't matter. You're alive now. And this time, it's on your terms.

So you start counting. One.

It doesn't matter because if Osomatsu-niisan had walked down that street, doubtlessly bundled in winter clothing because his spite doesn't deafen him to his brothers' counsel; if he'd been saved from the humiliation of sliding on ice by a neon-colored warning in the form of dark blood and the shape of his brother, he wouldn't have cared that much. Damn Ichimatsu, spilling the kerosene. If Todomatsu had accidentally discovered the damp and swollen flesh of your bite, if he'd come in to sit with you a few hours later than he did and found nothing but the still-flushed skin of a cooling corpse, he would have cleansed the room in actual fire but otherwise wouldn't have given much of a shit.

You're sure of it. They wouldn't have.

They go through the motions because five is hard to deal with when you've always been six, but if it means extra room in the futon at night, extra food on their table and a few more bills in their wallets, they wouldn't care that much about your life. They must care at least as little about it as you do.

Two and three, in succession.

Actually, you don't know why you even bothered to wait entire fucking months to do this. Maybe you're just a pathetic liar and you actually are afraid of dying. Maybe you were secretly hoping that your brothers would grow psychic powers, and figure out something was going on with you; or, its opposite, maybe you were afraid of that precise scenario. It's hard to die peacefully in a family with no privacy.

Maybe you just needed that long to drag up enough motivation to actually make an effort at something. If you're being honest, that's the most likely possibility.

Four, your lucky number. Right on target; you're beginning to feel a little unwell.

You're doing this because what's really fucking killing you is not knowing beyond a shadow of a doubt. Apparently, two miracles aren't enough for you. You're that kind of greedy, disgusting guy, who gets good things he doesn't deserve and then throws them all away like trash. One by one by one by one.

Five.

This is stupid. You're stupid.

Six.

It's going to be really funny if you actually just stay dead this time. Hilarious. You're stupid but you're not dumb; you doubt you're immortal, just screwed up. What normie can do the things you can do, anyway? You know cats. You know all about cats; for fuck's sake, you _are_ one, when the conditions are right. It's a shitty explanation, but it's the only one that comes remotely close to making sense.

You've seen enough die under your semi-care to know that no, they don't have nine fucking lives. But they're not the unlucky, fourth-born Matsuno. They're not hated enough by whatever gods are out there to end up with a fate like this.

If you die on three lives, it would really be hilarious. Because you know for a fact that you wouldn't die on four.

You're not that lucky.

Seven eight nine.

It's not worth talking about. It's not even worth counting. You're just waiting for it to happen, letting it, completely docile to its necessary inevitability. As if you're not the one sitting here in the dark, crisp night, doing it to yourself. You're just allowing it.

Past ten, but you did lose count. You're feeling dizzy and ill. It doesn't feel nice; it doesn't connect you to a feeling of being, some unreachable canal of vitality that you might have been drifting parallel to all these years. Because you're weak, because you've indulged enough but _just_ enough, you know how that feels. You did that to feel that. You're doing this to do this. There's no epiphany. There's nothing good, or bad. You just feel like you're dying.

And if you do wake up, which you're not fully expecting but it's the only result worth having a contingency plan for, you guess that pins you with some kind of new responsibility. The man who can't die, or at the very least, can die a few more times. Someone like that should be a little less selfish, shouldn't he? Someone like that could afford to let out his tender heart without fear of where it would lead him. Then again, that's why this is so hilarious; that's why you were chosen for this.

Who else would throw this away, for no other reason than that's all that happens to garbage?

It's so fucking funny and stupid, it's not worth talking about. It's not even worth all these mental gymnastics to justify. It's a punchline. You just let the joke tell itself.

You curl in on yourself, listen to a clatter on the asphalt, and just let it.

* * *

You wake up.

You feel sick, and you're tired. A blanket of fog bristles with gray sunshine, and it's still early enough that you're positive you can return home, clean up, and crawl back into bed before any of your brothers are awake.

Your legs hold your weight with ease. You shed your undershirt and fling it into the cobweb-frosted shrubbery. Slide on your damp winter coat, jokingly embellished by your younger brothers with kitty clips; with purple-striped pins and the number "4" by your elders. It hangs perfectly on your thin, unburdened frame.

Buttoning the coat and kicking your punchline underneath the park bench with another sharp clack, you head home.

You were right. Even now, it doesn't matter.

It wasn't worth anything at all.


	4. 1stray

**iv. 1stray**

* * *

Four, of course, is your lucky number.

It's the first time you dare to think something is wrong.

 _Wrong_ is a word that seems stupid; stupid in your head, as you ease back into life with your moronic brothers as though nothing ever happened; stupid in your face, as you glance in the mirror and run your hand over your hair, touch the scarring on your arm; stupid in your mouth, as you find yourself awake at night, staring into your palms, counting fingers and coming up three every time.

What's _wrong_ with it, exactly? What's _wrong_ with _you_ , exactly?

You've already come to terms that it doesn't fucking matter. If you claw your way through every day out of some unacknowledged desire to live, or if you lie down and embrace your idealized dying wish, it doesn't matter, because you don't have a choice.

What are you supposed to do with this many lives? You didn't even want the one.

A month passes from the night you swallowed a bottle of pills on a dusky park bench. Then two months, then three. Then a few more. You don't die again, you don't _try_ to die again, because four is your lucky number and you know precisely that it's saving itself for something special.

You didn't expect to have to work for it.

More importantly, you didn't expect that someone else would figure you out.

"Ah! Uh… ah. Ichimatsu-niisan."

You sigh and rub your eyes. Jyushimatsu is on his hands and knees next to the futon, shifting back and forth with subdued, nervous energy. His voice had been lowered for your benefit; seeing you awake, he gives a little start before seeming to remember himself.

"Good evening, Niisan! Did you have a good nap?"

Not really, you think, but you grunt an affirmative anyway. Then, deciding that Jyushimatsu is worth an actual response, you mutter: "Yeah."

Jyushimatsu tilts his head and stares at you, sitting back on his knees to press a sleeve against his mouth. Jeez... it's like he doesn't believe you or something. Whatever, he won't call you out on it. Sure enough, he simply grabs your wrist and springs to his feet, shaking your limp arm about excitedly.

"Great! But now it's time to eat. Choromatsu-niisan won't let us start until you come down, too. He's super annoying, ahaha!"

"Yeah?" Blearily, you keep rubbing your eye with the heel of your palm. You're used to Jyushimatsu waking you up - he's usually the one your brothers deploy for the job, since he's the one you're least likely to snap at. Smart bastards. "Maybe you should kill him."

"No thanks! It's easier to just come… get… you."

Jyushimatsu trails off, and it's so completely out of character that you can't help but jostle awake. You wheel around to look at him again - and nearly jump out of your freaking skin when you see him leaning inches away from you. As sextuplets, it's not like you've ever had any concept of personal space with each other, but there's something unsettling about the way his wide eyes are suddenly drilling into yours.

Wait… the hell is… he's not staring into your eyes at all. He's… looking at the top of your head?

"What?" You self-consciously pat your bedhead. Yeah, you know it's a total wreck; sleeping never does your rat's nest any favors. Is he implying you should brush your hair or something before going to dinner? Fat fucking chance -

You're surprised when he swats your fingers away, pulls down his sleeve to let his hand out, and runs it carefully over your scalp.

"What's this?" he asks.

You have no freaking clue what he's talking about, and as tolerant as you are with Jyushimatsu compared to the others, even he's starting to test your limits. You're about to shove him off until you register the sensation of his fingers parting your hair, and you realize -

Fuck.

You grab his hand and pull it down.

"It's nothing, Jyushimatsu," you say hurriedly. "Let's go eat."

He does meet your gaze this time, vacant smile plastered into place, but you know perfectly damn well that neither of you are fooling the other. Though Jyushimatsu doesn't fight your grasp, his voice is unsettlingly even.

"You have weird scarring on your head, Niisan. Where's that from?"

You snort derisively and let his wrist go.

"Stupid accident. Happened a while ago."

"I don't remember that." His smile has widened a fraction, which - in this context - you know is a bad thing. He's either starting to get a little freaked out or sort of pissed off. Drawing in a breath, you try to settle yourself; you're just going to tell him the truth. Easy.

"It's not a big deal. I was fine. Besides, I wouldn't expect you guys to remember every little thing that happens to garbage like me."

"Stop it," Jyushimatsu says forcefully. "I _would_ remember! I… uh… maybe not _every_ little thing, because we fight a lot and you play baseball with me all the time, so we've had plenty of accidents. But Ichimatsu-niisan, that scar isn't a little thing at all. It's _big_. I'd remember whatever gave you that. It looks like a hospital-sized strikeout!"

Shit, you think, and can't stop yourself from sucking in a breath through your teeth and shoving your hands up into your hair to feel for yourself. Stupid… freaking _bedhead_. Is the scar really that huge? It's not like you've ever been able to see it, but you didn't think it would be that dramatic.

Then again - it did kill you.

Somehow that seems to register a bit more fully, as you find it and re-trace the scarred tissue with your fingers. Starting just behind your temple, stretching all the way up your crown, ending nearly dead center on the back of your head. You didn't think about it before, but you guess… that… _is_ pretty big.

Christ. You're such a joke.

Only you could fuck up a simple fall that bad.

"Ichimatsu-niisan?"

You yank your hands back down into your lap, balking at him like a deer caught in headlights. But if you look surprised, the expression on Jyushimatsu's face is nothing short of bafflement. It's not like you to give ground this easily. He was probably expecting to have to fight you a lot harder before you slipped.

So you say the first moronic bit of stupidity that comes to mind.

"It was… a cat."

And you immediately feel like the NEET scum of the earth for it. First, even the implication that one of your cat friends would ever do something so awful to you - second, the way your brother's eyes narrow, and his smile inflates further still.

"Ah. Is that so?" Jyushimatsu asks blankly. "Then, I don't think you should hang out with that cat anymore."

Now you've done it. He's pissed. And he doesn't believe you at all. Of course he wouldn't; Jyushimatsu can be a bit oblivious, or at least way too out of tune with the rest of the world to register most of it, but you can't fuck with him when it comes to shit like this. Even that aside, you haven't been able to lie to either of your little brothers your whole life. What the hell made you think you could start now?

You swallow uncomfortably and look away. Jyushimatsu just keeps staring at you, because he knows you'll cave if he applies enough pressure. He fucking knows it.

He knows something's wrong.

"Jyushima -"

" _Jyushimatsu!_ Is Ichimatsu giving you a hard time or what?! Come on already, we're all starving to death -"

Osomatsu freezes in the doorway, already halfway through the threshold, as he suddenly seems to register the scene. His gaze cuts between the two of you slowly, and honestly, it's almost hilarious how surprised he looks. Can you blame him? This much tension between the fourth and fifth sons doesn't just happen.

And yet, for all of the sheer agitation you can feel vibrating from your younger brother, you could practically fly over and kiss Osomatsu's stupid-looking mug right now.

The eldest clears his throat uncomfortably, pulling on his all-weather Oniichan Voice.

"Everything okay in here?"

You stand up abruptly. Jyushimatsu keeps staring at you, but your path to freedom has been laid out in front of you and you're going to take it.

"Fine," you say, and shoulder past Osomatsu, who moves aside with a soft sound of protest.

As you descend the stairs, the beat of silence that follows is broken by your older brother's voice.

"Jyushimatsu?"

"Ah, uh… yeah," Jyushimatsu says thinly. "Fine! Ichimatsu-niisan is fine! Nothing's wrong!"


	5. 2stray

**v. 2stray**

* * *

In retrospect: it went downhill from there.

At first, you think you're getting off easy. Jyushimatsu doesn't keep the pressure on like you thought he was going to, and he doesn't report his findings to the others, either. At least you don't think he did. You're certain that Karamatsu or Choromatsu would have come shrieking down the hallway within seconds of hearing about it, demanding to know the exact date and time of your fuckup. Osomatsu and Todomatsu had surprising tact when it came to these things; you don't think they would have tried to approach you about it so much as keep their cards close to their chest.

Or maybe they just don't actually care. Your brothers aren't complicated beings; it really could be that simple.

Dinner is uneventful. Jyushimatsu asks Totty to pass the soy sauce instead of you, which you only notice because it's right at your elbow, but nobody else does except - maybe - Osomatsu. You catch him looking askance at the exchange, anyway, but he's too wrapped up in stealing tsukemono out of Karamatsu's bowl to comment.

The rest of the meal passes without further awkwardness, thank fuck.

Afterwards, when you're all cleaning up, your little brother pats you roughly on the back as he passes with a tower of plates in one hand. It's a gesture you realize is forgiveness, and despite the coil of unease that refuses to uproot itself from your stomach, you have to indulge the fond smile that twists up in your face.

Ignoring you for five seconds over dinner? That's Jyushimatsu's idea of sufficiently petty revenge?

It's so like him.

But it had been such a near-miss, and you can't ignore that. You can't overlook the fact that it might be Karamatsu next, glimpsing the scarring on your head at the bathhouse; or Choromatsu, puzzling out what happened to his sleeping meds a few months back, because the mere sight of the new bottle fills you with such existential dread every time it appears that you have to leave the room; or Todomatsu, fussily adjusting the sleeves of your dress shirt like he always does whenever you're in your matching blue suits, and spotting the ugly bite-pattern scar on your arm.

Or Osomatsu, putting together a vague sum from your hundred broken parts, because that's what he does.

That night, you find yourself nervously smoothing down your hair as you climb into bed. Karamatsu, delighted by your sudden concern with grooming, loudly offers you his comb. You shut him up with an elbow to his nose, flop down, and curl up on your side.

The room darkens, filling with deep breathing and obnoxious other mouth-sounds, and you lie awake with the feeling of a cold tide washing over you.

 _Why not just tell them?_ you suddenly wonder.

You've already accepted that it doesn't matter. And if they give as few shits about you as you're always saying, then surely it wouldn't be a big deal. They'd call you a freak and move on with the status quo. Hell, they might do you a favor and expedite things by throwing you under the bus a few extra times when it's convenient for them.

It makes sense, right? Why _are_ you trying to hide it from them? It's not as if they actually care. You may as well just die. Again and again and again. Die, you disgusting garbage. You evil, selfish pig, fucking unburnable waste of -

Karamatsu mumbles contentedly in his sleep, his weight leaning against your back. And suddenly you feel so hideously ungracious that you have to shove that line of thought as far away from you as mentally achievable. You don't understand that reaction, either.

Whatever.

Just… who cares.

You close your eyes and try not to think about the inevitability of waking up.

* * *

No more missteps, you'd told yourself. They can't know. You still haven't fully justified to yourself _why_ ; the thought sticks in your chest like wire every time it gets too close, and because you're such a coward, you push it away every time.

Eventually, you decide that it would just be too much of a hassle. It's the story you're sticking with, in any case.

You're twenty-odd years into life and you've functioned as one part of a whole unit for all of it, so it's hard to unlearn some things. But you have to. You're careful to keep even quieter than usual in the bathhouse, where you're butt-naked and there's nothing to shield the new scars you can't explain. You smooth down the hair over your temple before getting up every morning - you learn to suppress your impulsive flinch every time a pill bottle rattles.

No one notices, you think, because you're careful in other ways, too. You don't push your brothers away. You can't attribute that to your interpersonal skills, obviously - the truth is that they haven't given you reason to start pushing. Jyushimatsu treats you like that awkward day had never happened, and while you're not quite stupid enough to think he forgot, you suspect he's probably just waiting for you to cave from the guilt and go to him about it.

For once, he's wrong about you.

As for the others? Who fucking cares. They just don't notice, and you don't expect them to. Days pass, and weeks pass, and you get a little bit more comfortable with hiding the things you can't explain.

Which makes it all the more awkward, the first time Osomatsu unthinkingly reaches over to ruffle your hair with a fond comment, and you shrink away from him like some sort of alarmed cat.

He freezes with his hand still stretched out in midair, like he can't comprehend why you're not at the end of it, smiling and tolerating a rough affection that would get the rest of your brothers' eyes clawed out. When he finally redirects his gaze to you, the bolt of hurt and surprise is so raw that it leaves the feeling of a knife-slash in your guts.

But he recovers. Your big brother just pulls his hand back in and rubs his nose.

"Aww, don't be shy, Ichimachuu. Oniichan's washed his hands, promise!"

"It's not that," you snap. The hemorrhaging guilt in your middle folds you up, draws your arms around your knees, and you glare at him.

He lowers his hand into his lap. A moment later, you realize that he's glaring back.

"Then what is it?" Osomatsu asks, and glares, he fucking _glares_ with that quiet, calm expression that communicates a hundred thousand things his limited vocabulary never could. You recognize the look in his eye instantly.

Your stomach drops into the floor. Shit. Jyushimatsu, you traitor.

He knows.

He's known all along.

Heart suddenly racing, you back away from him even further, and this time there's vindictive pleasure in your veins at the leaflet of hurt that Osomatsu isn't skilled enough to keep hiding from his face. You're mind-numbingly glad that it's just the two of you; if it were even so much as just two against one, you don't think you'd be coming out on top of this one.

But Osomatsu? An Osomatsu whose feelings you've already trampled on like a soda can, completely unintentional, because that's just what a piece of shit like you does?

Easy.

"You smell like booze," you say. The lie is easy enough, even if your gaze cuts away from him. "Disgusting. Don't touch me, you bar rag. Go die."

And Osomatsu, fuck him, _laughs_ at you. It's one hundred percent genuine, and that rankles you more than it should, because it means he knows what you're doing and he's fine with it. He shouldn't be fine with it. You're awful and you should die.

"Ichimatsu is so mean," the eldest whines, cracking open another beer. He winks at you, and you understand.

You're completely fucked.

* * *

They know, and they're conspiring against you. Maybe they've been doing it for months.

Forget Osomatsu and Todomatsu being the only ones good at keeping things close to their chest. All of your brothers are obviously twice as good as you thought _you_ were, because you had no freaking clue they were onto you. What could you have done differently? Were you screwed over from the moment Jyushimatsu found you out, and all of this careful maneuvering was literally pointless? What did he tell them?

What did they _think_?

You don't know. You don't know, and it makes you so utterly sick every time you lie down and Karamatsu's weight is against you, every mealtime when Osomatsu tries to steal a spring roll off your plate to prompt a reaction out of you and Choromatsu violently slaps his hand away, every time Jyushimatsu lovingly pats the not-scarred side of your head after baseball sessions and the way Totty comes after you with a comb and dryer and fluffs your hair post-bathhouse. It sickens you to have all that pointed kindness, as if all bets were off the second Osomatsu not-quite-called you out.

The worst part is that you can't fucking _remember_ how much of it is new, and how much of it is just shit you never noticed before. The thought comes to you and you refuse to examine it. You hate it that much.

And you're so sickened, you want to sit up in the middle of the night screaming bloody murder, demanding to know exactly what's going through their heads. What the hell they think of you. What Jyushimatsu told them, and what rabbit hole they've thundered down in his wake.

Aren't you overreacting, though?

How much could they _possibly_ have construed from a simple case of missed scarring? You have a scar, stop the presses. You're missing the essential truth here: it's not a big deal. It never was. It still isn't. Because it doesn't fucking matter.

You don't fucking matter, Ichimatsu.

Whatever they think is going on with you, it doesn't matter. You just have to endure it until they lose interest.

* * *

The final straw, unsurprisingly, is drawn by the glittering sore in the shape of a man. It's a hot day, so you're already in one of the worse of your default moods; opening the bedroom door and seeing Karamatsu positioned at the table does nothing to lighten it.

Determined to ignore him, you sling your shopping bag of cat food onto the floor and trudge past. Karamatsu, obviously, has other plans. He loudly clears his throat, and continues to do so in progressively obnoxious volumes until you finally swing around to glare at him. Without missing a beat, Karamatsu stops.

He pats the cushion next to him.

"Sit, my Ichimatsu."

You've got half a mind to _sit_ your whole foot up his glimmering ass. But you're too heat-exhausted. Reluctantly, you shuffle over in obedience, dropping down and scooting underneath the table. Sitting only makes you want to sleep even more, and it's hard to focus your gaze on your brother.

Which isn't even worth the effort, of course. Karamatsu's sitting there like a complete jackass, elbows on the table, fingers splayed and steepled contemplatively in front of his face. Behind his sunglasses you can't tell if he's looking at you or just completely ignoring you for dramatic effect. What a prick.

Then, quite abruptly, Karamatsu takes his glasses off and sets them on the table, and one look at the pinched quality to his face changes your mind. You want to jam his sunglasses back on yourself.

"Brother, let me see your arms."

What? You stare stupidly. Why would he want to…

Oh.

Stupid question. There's only one reason why. There's only ever _been_ one reason why.

So he had better be fucking _kidding_.

Your fists ball in righteous fury within your lap, and even though he can't see it, Karamatsu must sense the danger that fills your aura like a smoke bomb, because he opens his mouth to continue. You, of course, don't let him.

"Why?"

He flinches, and oh does that piss you off. Because it confirms exactly what you'd suspected his motives were. It takes every ounce of your pathetic self-control not to flip the table over right there and ram your knuckles down his throat.

Karamatsu's gaze flickers desperately, like he thinks there's still a chance for him to salvage this, which is completely hilarious. You let him give it a shot for the sheer fucking entertainment value.

"I want to make sure you're all right," he mutters weakly.

Oh, does he. You try to laugh, but it definitely shudders out from between your teeth sounding more like a garbled snarl.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Karamatsu grimaces. "Ichimatsu-"

"No," you say viciously. You feel your wrists start to itch under the suffocating heat. "Do you think you're that much better than me, that you can just _decide_ whether shit like that is happening?"

"Brother, _please_ -"

"Screw you. What kind of thing is that to ask me out of nowhere? It's been years - don't act like I haven't been trying ever since then! You think it's been easy for me? I don't need to prove myself-"

"Ichimatsu-niisan," says a voice from the doorway, "you should let him look."

Your jaw snaps shut with a click. Letting your eyes fall, you feel the fury drain from you with the slump of your shoulders. God, why him? Why did this collapsing shitshow have to start with him? And you thought he was letting you off easy.

"Shut up, Jyushimatsu," you mumble.

Then you untuck your arms from beneath the table, hike your sleeves up, and offer them out to your older brother.

He takes them as though he's handling glass, slow, unsure of himself, and you hope he chokes on his own anxiety. But he doesn't. Your eyes stay closed because you don't want to witness this. Yet for all you've blinded yourself, you can still feel; you still sense the soft, tender brush of Karamatsu's thumb over your wrists, tracing the tiny white lines that have long faded into your pale skin.

At least you know what they've been thinking, now.

You're so humiliated, so god damned tired, that you almost miss the low and guttural hum uttered in Karamatsu's throat.

"This one is new."

You don't need to open your eyes to know which one he's referring to, but you do anyway. Karamatsu's thumb rests just below the disgusting, jagged puncture marks on your arm. God, it's somehow uglier healed than it had been fresh. You're a total idiot for believing none of them had noticed this. Just because they've learned to ignore your older scars doesn't mean they're fucking blind.

"Does that look like a _cut_ to you, idiot?"

Karamatsu must feel the lack of heat in your tone, but for some reason, that of all things makes him flinch. You sense his gaze on you, studying; then he exchanges a look with Jyushimatsu, still in the doorway. You don't bother glancing up to try and interpret it.

"No, of course not. But, I would very much like to know what it _is_."

You scoff and angle a scathing look towards your younger brother.

"Get in line."

This time, he doesn't flinch. Neither of them do. You're the one who ends up dropping your gaze again, and you hate it, you hate yourself so fucking much. You're such a freak. Why can't you just come clean? What is wrong with you?

"My _brother_... why are you hiding from us?"

What is _wrong_ with you? Why won't you just _die_?

"I don't know," you mumble.

Nobody seems to know what to say to that.

So you spare them. You pull sharply away from Karamatsu, tug your sleeve down, and shoulder your way past your younger brother out the door.

It figures; in the end, you actually just ruin everything by being alive.


	6. 3stray

**vi. 3stray**

* * *

Choromatsu and Todomatsu. The liars. The Risers. The brothers deluded enough to think that there's some sort of escape from the pitiful NEET cesspit that is your life. Deluded enough to think that they're better than the rest of the hot trash, good enough to make it out in the real world.

In some ways, people might call them the straight men of your ridiculous family. You just know that they're deluded.

They're also the most dangerous.

They're dangerous when they actually _try_ , because sometimes, they're capable of overcoming all of their ego and self-sabotaging habits. You hate to admit it, but a Choromatsu and Todomatsu who have left their social anxieties at the door can be forces not to be reckoned with. You'd almost admire the stark and serious efficiency with which they're able to tackle things; the way they pick apart reality in clean blocks, when all it ever looks like to you are jigsaw pieces in endlessly muddled patterns.

You'd admire it, if it wasn't _you_ they were picking apart, this time.

Todomatsu comes at you first, and that was exactly according to plan. It had to have been. Your idiot older brothers are all hard to figure out, but your younger ones? You know them better than you know yourself. You're soft on them, damn you, and they know it. Totty knows it. Your conniving little brother is the one you've always had to keep at two arms' length, because he has the same talent you do.

He can read people like books. Even if he's delusional with love for himself, he's never been blind to his brothers. If you allowed him to - if you allowed him that close - he would pull you open at the seams and see the things inside of you that have twisted away from even your sight.

He would laugh at them, and scoop them out, and use them to remind you just how messed up you are at every opportunity.

He's just never cared enough to.

But it's only been days since Karamatsu inspected your arms, and you're feeling the pressure. Your brothers sure as hell aren't shy about applying it anymore. They hound you like shadows, never leaving you on your own for more than a few hours at a time - and they're so infuriatingly casual about it, like they're determined to let you keep feeling like nothing's changed.

You're not a moron. All pretenses are well and truly down the shitter: they're all in on it and they seem done pretending otherwise.

So, screw caution. _Now_ you've started pushing back.

You steal away with meals to eat alone when you can. You go to bed long before they do, and stubbornly refuse to get up until everyone else has already risen. You've turned down the bathhouse three times in a row now, and maybe they'll grow enough fucking brain cells between the five of them to take a hint.

Todomatsu doesn't even _need_ a damned hint. He's got enough social sharpness to know exactly what the hell you're doing. And yet the first time a chance to harass you one-on-one crosses his path, there he freaking is. It's a warm afternoon when he slides onto the couch next to you, tapping away on his phone; he brings his legs up onto the cushions, settling in to lounge luxuriously in the sunlight, and pretends not to notice your existence. He's pretty good at it, too.

Too bad you know exactly what's coming.

You know it before he sets his phone in his lap, suddenly, inexplicably disinterested in it.

"I'll get straight to the point," he says. "The others are worried about you."

You stop running your hand over the cat in your lap. Despite yourself, a smile twists the corner of your mouth, feeling more like a grimace.

 _The others,_ huh.

Of course. He's such a sly bastard. He knows he can't fool you, so he drops the bullshit from the start. You're sort of proud at how masterfully he adjusts his playstyle for each of you. In fact, you'd throw him a bone and reply if you were any dumber.

Todomatsu, recognizing your non-response, barrels on.

"Don't ask me why. You've always acted a little weird, Niisan… and even if it's a bit more than normal, it's not like you've actually done anything wrong recently. So I don't see the big deal." Todomatsu gives a little huff. "If you ask me, I think Jyushimatsu-niisan completely oversold it. He worries about you the most, you know."

Ugh, and there he goes… you can't stand this stuff. Serious topics with Todomatsu are practically conversational chess, and his strategy has always been quick, prodding jabs that overwhelm and confuse more than sting. Already you feel your eyes slinking back and forth as you cast about for what to address first.

And Totty, the little shit he is, politely renews his interest in his phone to give you that time.

It doesn't take you long, though. Of course you'd focus in on Jyushimatsu, and you wonder what Totty is trying to say by bringing him up. He's probably trying to guilt you, but you're not stupid enough to ask. Of all the brothers, you might actually be the only one capable of beating Todomatsu at these games - if for no reason other than that you tend to ignore all the rules and just bludgeon your way through them.

Might as well get started.

"If you don't care, then stop talking to me about it."

He glances at you with an exerted air of patience, as though dealing with a cranky toddler. "You do realize that it just makes their suspicions worse when you push us away like that, right?"

"So what?" you ask fiercely. "Listen. I don't give a shit if our idiot older brothers put you up to this. If you're saying that you don't want to do this, then don't. Just tell them nothing's wrong and leave me alone, Totty."

Todomatsu hums thoughtfully. He locks his phone, sets it on the armrest, and turns to you with a blank frown.

"Well, of course I can't do that. They won't believe me, and they'll know I didn't try very hard."

God, he's annoying. "Why?"

"Because there _is_ something wrong. You're making it so obvious."

A flash of cold alarm flares up in your gut, and you nudge the cat gently off of your lap just so that you can shrink away from him a little bit. Which is pathetic, but whatever. You narrow your eyes at him, determined not to let him know he's getting to you.

"Like you care."

"You're being unfair," Todomatsu replies sharply. "Why are you so hung up on whether I care or not? I'm asking you a simple question, Ichimatsu-niisan. You don't need to get like this."

You'd be lying if you said that didn't catch you a little bit off-guard. You feel yourself begin to tense, fists tightening and unclenching in your lap. He might be your baby brother, but god does he rub you the wrong way with the best of them. He's such a lying piece of crap. You hate this fake coddling, this sugared veil of concern when you know the _real_ Todomatsu.

What is he even getting at? It's obvious he doesn't care, that this is all just a chore to him. He practically came into this conversation admitting it. He thinks he's so freaking masterful, but if he really had any sense, he'd have sent Jyushimatsu to do this, or Osomatsu, or even the glittering hemorrhoid. Fuck, even _Choromatsu_ could have awkwarded you into submission. Anything is better than this faux concern, shining in your brother's face like a lamplight. Pinning you down with something colder than the sun.

"Stop giving me that." You seethe; quietly, slowly, putting your voice into every vowel to make him understand. "Just say it, you dry monster… you want to get the others off your back. That's all. It's not as if I blame you for it, so drop the act already. Don't pretend you'd give a crap if I actually died tomorrow. I don't need that."

You expected him to brush the comment off with a casual agreement. Relief, at being let off the hook. Instead, he's quiet, hands resting on his knees. He stares at you, as if completely uncomprehending, so you bare your teeth and put on display as much of your vile self as you can.

"Face it, Todomatsu. The truth is, you wouldn't even _notice_."

"Fine," he blurts out in a small, tight voice.

Oh.

Your righteous fury sloughs off of you in droves, even as you grasp it, try to keep it there. Though there's the familiar undertone of a tantrum in his voice, he looks genuinely wounded. You went too far. And damn you, the soft set of his mouth bubbles in your memory with the feeling of a heat-haze, his hand gently squeezing yours in the dark, and you don't want that, _fuck_.

"Fine," he repeats coldly. "You're right: they put me up to this. You don't think I actually want to know what's wrong, do you? You're not hurt or dying right now, so I don't want to be bothered by whatever your problem is… it's so inconvenient! If it's not a big deal, I don't understand why you won't just _tell us!_ "

His voice rises an octave or two at the end, and you've never regretted more knowing him better than you know yourself. It completely gives him away. The both of you realize it with equal horror; he makes a mortified little noise and shrinks away, and you recoil as if he'd actually struck you. Realization turns icy in your veins. _That's_ the real Todomatsu.

Fuck. It hits you with the force of a deadfall.

You were wrong. He cares.

It's that simple. Todomatsu, Karamatsu, Jyushimatsu... the rest of them. This whole time, they've all been up your ass because they actually _care_.

Terror fills you until the world goes white. Stop, you idiot. If you let yourself admit this, then what the hell is left to you? It'd give them the right more than ever to know that you've died and died and _can_ die, but - the pit between you and your brothers seems to leap impossibly wider, stranding you at its edge. If you admit it now… then it changes everything. It's not a matter of your dumbass pride or whatever the hell was your problem before this anymore.

If… if you died, if it'd mess them up...

You have to _protect_ the assholes from it.

Your world pitches and shifts and shrinks and expands, and you're so hollowed out by the mechanical coldness of your epiphany that you almost miss it: the soft sound of a long and shaking inhale, followed by a quiet gulp. But it grounds you, throws you back into the scattered jigsaw pieces, and you blink up to the sight of Todomatsu staring at you through dull eyes, his knees drawn up, curled in on himself in a mimicry of the pose you so often take.

It doesn't suit him at all.

"I'm the one who found it, Ichimatsu-niisan," he says flatly.

What?

"I think that's when we really figured out you were hiding something from us. You've been acting weird ever since last winter, and Jyushimatsu-niisan told us about that weird scar on your head, but we thought… we'd just keep an eye on you. It'd be fine, as long as we just did that."

You don't know what the hell he's talking about. You just want him to stop it. But you're glued in place, watching your little brother swallow again before continuing.

"A few weeks ago, Mom asked me to do the laundry that piled up in the closet all last year. Of course I didn't want to, but I at least pretended to sort through it, you know? And… I found that purple hoodie." He shivers. "It was covered in blood, and the arm was ripped up. A total mess. I should have asked you about it right away, but then I remembered what Jyushimatsu-niisan said about how fast you shut him down. So I went to everyone else instead.

"No one had any idea what could have done that. Even though there's no way any of us would've missed seeing you that messed up. That's when we realized that you were actually getting hurt and not telling us."

You sit in utter silence, pressed as far back into the opposite side of the couch as physically possible. A cold, electric feeling is wired up inside you, and you want to laugh, because it's so funny. It's so fucking hilarious that the youngest brother is the one who found you out.

You've been so wrong, about everything.

You want to laugh, but there's no air in your lungs. You clench your eyes shut.

"Totty… listen…"

He looks at you with such furious accusation in his eyes that the half-assed attempt dies on your tongue.

"No, you listen. We're not stupid. You think we forgot how sick you got out of nowhere last winter? Maybe you don't think so, but it got really serious. Or what about the time you came home in the snow half-naked before that, reeking of gasoline and puke? It's all related, isn't it? That's why you've been so weird ever since then."

This is a disaster. You run your hand through your hair, trying not to dig your fingernails in, trying not to let your voice bubble out into indecipherable laughter. You're ridiculous. You're _ridiculous_. You can't believe you fucked up everything this bad without even trying. You made this such a big deal when it never should have been.

You should have just died. God, that would have been so much simpler.

"Ichimatsu-niisan, answer me!"

"That's enough, Todomatsu."

You jump. Choromatsu is at the doorway, expression grim, sliding the door shut behind him. His pin-sharp pupils move between the two of you, brows furrowed and well down his rabbit hole of thought. The reason for his sudden presence slaps you in the face.

"How long have you been listening?"

"Long enough," he replies, and son of a bitch. _This_ was the plan in full. Of course Choromatsu wouldn't come to you later - you both know better than to try and force those uncomfortable one-on-one interactions by now. He was just waiting in the wings this whole time, ready to de-escalate the situation when your temper inevitably ruined everything.

This turn of things probably wasn't what he was expecting, but he seems to be rolling with it well.

Good for fucking him.

He turns to Todomatsu and rests a hand on his knee, smiling kindly.

"I think Ichimatsu gets the picture, Totty. Let me take over from here." Right, because apparently you're just not here.

You wish. Choromatsu is turning to you next, all gentle smiles and soft, worried wrinkles creasing the stress lines around his eyes, and god, why can't he just go back to being awkward around you? That you can deal with. Not this.

"Ichimatsu, I'm going to ask directly, so please don't get mad. Are you in trouble? Is there something happening that you're afraid to tell us about?"

You suck in a tiny breath and look up at him. He looks so… _patient_ , and Todomatsu hasn't spoken a damn word since being hushed, but you see him right on Choromatsu's other side, watching you expectantly. Damn it, they _care_. They care a lot. How did you miss this? What the hell is wrong with you?

It's too much. Your eyes screw shut and you lower your head into your hands.

Don't tell him. Don't _tell_ them.

Is there something happening that you're _afraid_ of? What's there to be afraid of? You can't die. Just die, you piece of shit. Don't tell them. Just die. Jump out the window. Break a mirror with your skull. Do it again and again and again as many times as it takes, until this is _fixed_ like it should have been months ago, weeks ago, days ago. Use up all the favors you never wanted in one fell swoop. Don't say a damn thing.

"Yes," you whisper.

You idiot.

You stupid fucking -

"Yes," you say, "but it's done with now."

A soft pressure squeezes your knee, surprising you. You glance down to see that at some point Choromatsu had settled his hand there, and Todomatsu is gone from his other side, but the weight that falls on your other shoulder solves the mystery of where he went. You sense them exchanging looks of disbelief over your sad, bowed form. As if you can blame them.

It's Todomatsu who tries next. "Is that true, Niisan?"

You'd said it so fast, but as you bite your lip and sigh, you force yourself to think about it a bit harder. Really… you don't see why it wouldn't be true. If these morons actually care what happens to a lump of filth like you, then even the illusion of choice isn't your call anymore. Save them from yourself.

Be a little more careful, for their sakes.

That's how you're justifying it now, huh?

A bitter little tickle starts in your throat, and you clamp down on it just so you won't start laughing like the maniac you are. Todomatsu must feel you tensing under his hand, because he prompts you with a firmer, "Is it?"

You nod.

"Yeah," you say. You're not as good a liar as he is, but the thing is, you've never let any of them close enough to reach your seams. They have no clue about you in most aspects. It's actually pretty freaking sad, but it's in your favor right now.

Straightening into your usual level of slouch, you continue.

"You guys… you're right. I was getting in with a bad group. To, uh, make money…" you try not to fidget under their intense scrutiny. "... it didn't work out."

"Ichimatsu, don't tell me… did you get involved with _yakuza?!"_ Choromatsu shrieks suddenly. Todomatsu rolls his eyes.

"Obviously not, Choromatsu-niisan! He could never deal with the needles for all the tattoos."

Is that seriously what disqualifies you in the youngest's eyes? Whatever, you'll roll with it. Your immediate older brother's intensely disapproving glare is a familiar and welcome change of pace.

"A-anyway," you say quickly, "they kept asking me to do a bunch of bad stuff, and whenever I turned 'em down they took it out on me. I got sick of it and quit. They, uh… never got my real name or anything. So you guys should be safe. Just stay away from the… the… Akustaka District."

Todomatsu's eyes narrow. "I don't even know what that district is."

Yeah, probably because you just made it up.

"I haven't heard of it either," says Choromatsu firmly, "but forget about that for now. Ichimatsu, we're talking about this with the others. You getting into trouble with gangs… not to mention putting the rest of us on the line like that! Even if they didn't get your name, we all have the same face, you know!"

You give as half-assed of a shrug as you can manage, stubbornly refusing to look at either of them. Choromatsu makes a loud and exasperated noise.

"You're impossible!"

To your surprise, it's Todomatsu who swoops in to your rescue. "Give it a rest, Fappymatsu. It might be a little extreme, but at least Ichimatsu-niisan was trying to find work, right? Even if it was with worse criminals than he is."

What the hell? Some defense. The little devil looks like he's completely recovered his composure. Still, you're grateful, and give a tiny grunt of thanks. His answering squeeze against your shoulder is both reassuring and ominous.

Choromatsu stands and faces the two of you. His small, sharp pupils flicker from you to Totty and then back, as if maybe sensing a shift in sides - but he doesn't say anything. He just sighs heavily, resting his hands on his hips.

"All right. The others are out at the races, but when they get home, we're talking about this. End of story."

Your shoulders slump. There's no escaping it now. All you can do is try and get your lie a little bit straighter… at least if you've fooled these two, the others might not be as hard. Even Jyushimatsu, whatever his doubts, will probably roll with a story so long as everyone else -

Totty suddenly moves away from you, and two hands fall on both of your shoulders in his place. Your eyes swing upward to Choromatsu, kneeling in front of you. His face is solemn and smiling and so freaking, disgustingly relieved.

"I'm glad you're okay, Ichimatsu."

Then he stands up and whisks out of the room. You're left feeling a little bit dazed, watching the open doorway as he disappears through it. That little… he just can't stop rising, saying embarrassing shit. That was as painful as Shittymatsu.

"Eh? You look happy, Ichimatsu-niisan," Totty purrs.

You jump away from him. "Sh-shut up!"

"Jeez, okay. Anyway…" he drops down next to you, scoots closer, and leans in. "... it's annoying that you thought you could lie to me, but I'm sure you had your reasons. In fact, I told Choromatsu-niisan from the start that this would never work. If you didn't tell even Jyushimatsu-niisan… I figured you'd probably rather die than let us know about it."

You stare at him. Todomatsu's mouth is set into an unusually grim line, his soft, large pupils hardened and grave. It occurs to you that you've let him in close enough; you wonder what, exactly, he sees.

And shame fills your insides, because he's not tearing them out of you at all.

"It's complicated," you mutter, looking away from him. You feel his hand touch your sleeve, right over the scarring, and shudder.

"I figured that out already, you dope." You didn't know his voice could get that gentle. "Look, even though I wasn't lying earlier, I understand wanting to shut us out of some parts of your life. It's sort of hypocritical of you to do this after how hard you all went at me about the gym and mountain-climbing and stuff… but that's okay. I forgive you. And I'll help you."

You can't stop yourself; your eyes narrow suspiciously and you look him up and down. "Help me? With what?"

Todomatsu giggles. "With your lie, obviously! It won't be hard. Those dummies are easy to fool. But you're terrible at it, so like I said, I'll help. On one condition."

A brief silence settles in. At first you wonder if he's expecting you to respond, but then you realize that he's just watching you - just looking. Seeing all the things inside of you that you hate too much to examine. And you let him. You were so wrong about so many things; you don't trust anything in yourself, not even the longest and most loyal instinct to push your own brother away.

Finally, Todomatsu squeezes your arm again.

"Whatever is happening, promise me you'll be smart about it. And try to be okay, Ichimatsu-niisan. For us."

It's terrible timing, but a fucked-up sense of pride swells in your chest. Despite the fact that he can be the biggest prick of them all, your baby brother has a decent heart. He's a good brother when he wants to be. And it must mean something, that as picky as he is, he wants to be for you.

"Sure."

The relief that breaks apart Todomatsu's expression lasts less than a second, but you catch it and hold it close inside; even as he conceals himself with a smile and a clap of his hands.

"Great! So first up, Osomatsu-niisan. Lying to him is harder than you'd think, so it's easier to just distract him with…"

As Todomatsu prattles on, the cat finally slinks back over, sniffing at your feet, and you beckon him up to your lap with a soft click of your tongue. He leaps up and settles in, your hand continuing its well-versed rhythm across his back, and you listen intently to your dry monster of a little brother explain how to pull the wool over the rest of them.

Your gut churns at the oncoming discussion, but with the sextuplets' best liar on your side, it doesn't seem quite so daunting. In an uncharacteristic rush of optimism, nothing seems so insurmountable. So you can die in a loop? So what. You were pretty much expecting a purgatory at the end of your life, anyway. This is part of your curse. It's just what you deserve. There's no need to drag the rest of your family into it.

They're all decent brothers. Any one of them deserved this freakish superpower more than you did.

If only you could give it to them.


End file.
